


The Catalogue Job

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (that Solas is totally going to see), Description Porn, Modern AU, Multi, Professor!Solas, Sera Being Sera, costume porn, female bonding, in which Ayla poses in a risque catalogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6803074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the latest installment of the Professor Solas-verse, Alya has landed a spot in Solange’s of Val Royeaux’s prestigious Satinalia catalogue. A long weekend of frilly knickers, gourmet craft services tables, and troublemaking best friends ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Catalogue Job

**Author's Note:**

> Co-starring @geeky-jez‘s Isii, @arrowmaker247‘s Orion, and @dammit–solas‘s Saara Adaar!

Alya breathed deeply, trying to force herself to sit still.

The Satinalia catalogue. She was going to be in the Satinalia catalogue! Even now, waiting for her turn in hair and makeup in a side room of the magnificent Antivan villa rented out for the shoot, she could hardly believe it was actually happening.

When she’d first gotten the call to this shoot, she’d assumed it was a mistake. The dense, high-budget Satinalia issue had always been reserved for the most famous models, women whose faces were immediately recognizable all over Thedas; hardly the place for a nobody who’d just signed her first contract a few months earlier. And yet two weeks later, here she was, on a multi-million sovereign set outside of Antiva City, put up in first-class accommodations, and received no less graciously by the staff than the veteran models.

Mythal’s grace, it was all she could do to keep herself from bouncing off the walls, and the snifter of top shelf Antivan brandy one of the production assistants had pressed into her hand wasn’t helping: far from being relaxed, Alya now found herself anxious _and_ tipsy.

There wasn’t a single model here she didn’t recognize by name or career. At Alya’s side, phone in hand, sat Sofia Mousset, a permanent fixture on the Antivan runway; just there was Mariana, the face of the Savary fashion house of Dairsmuid, in the process of having her textured hair woven into a complicated crown of braids; over by the window and deep in conversation were Carissa of Vyrantium and Inari of Par Vollen, who had walked in over a hundred shows between them; and that was Saara Adaar in wardrobe, being fitted with a complicated piece of jewelry that circled her neck multiple times and threaded through jewel-encrusted nipple rings before wrapping several more times around her impressive abdominal muscles.

Alya had even spotted Vivienne, the CEO of Solange’s, flitting about giving instructions in an exquisite pantsuit straight off the runway of Perrotin’s spring haute couture collection, her impeccably manicured fingers frosting the glass of sparkling wine ever-present in her hand. Alya had heard that Vivienne— Madame de Fer, as she was commonly known—was hands-on, but she hadn’t imagined she would actually be _present_.

Alya took another large swig of brandy, the sweet liquid burning her lips and throat on its way down. Creators, this shoot could very well make or break her modeling career.

The door swung open at that moment, and Alya turned her head to see who had entered.

She choked on her brandy.

Gods, it couldn’t be.

But it _was_.

There, striding through the doorway, was _Isii_!

The first—the _only_ —Dalish supermodel was, if possible, even more beautiful in person, her long, wavy ivory hair and white vallaslin cutting a sharp contrast against her dark skin. Large, round sunglasses covered eyes Alya knew to be startlingly green, likely concealing her identity from those less in the know. She wore a perfectly tailored blazer over a loose, emerald green chiffon blouse and skinny jeans, her already imposing height augmented by a pair of strappy bronze heels.

Isii paused, her face breaking into a dazzling smile, and Alya turned in her seat to see who it was meant for.

There was no one behind her.

Oh.

Oh, dear Mythal, take her now.

Alya’s cheeks blazed as Isii crossed the room, claiming the seat beside her. The soft scent of jasmine came with her. “ _En'an'sal'en, lethallan_ ,” she said in a melodic brogue.

“ _S-su tas ma_ ,” Alya replied, trying to keep her hands from shaking.

Isii’s smile broadened. “ _Re na sael melava in Targen'i'man_?”

Alya blinked. Oh Gods, she had never heard that phrase before. It was clearly a question, but about what? Her mind scrambled through the sparse Elvish vocabulary she had learned in school, trying to parse out its meaning. She’d just met Isii, and already the other woman was going to think she was an idiot. Creators, _why_ had she accepted that glass of brandy?

Isii chuckled softly as she removed her sunglasses, allowing her piercing green eyes to meet Alya’s. “Is this your first time in Antiva?”

Alya let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yes. I’ve never spent much time outside of the Free Marches. I mean, I go to university in the Frostbacks, but I mostly stay _at_ the university when I’m there, so, really I'm—” babbling like a lunatic “—I’m… from the Free Marches.”

“So am I,” Isii said. “Well, I was actually born in Ferelden, but I grew up in the Marches.”

Alya nodded somewhat over-enthusiastically. She known that, of course. _Everyone_ knew that. Everyone knew Isii had been the First in a small clan that roamed the Marches before she was discovered at the age of sixteen by scouts from the Armistead fashion house in Markham. From there, she had skyrocketed, securing contract after contract with the most exclusive designers in Thedas, paying her way through university and a doctoral degree in Elven linguistics all the while.

Simply put, Isii was a goddess.

And, curiously enough, a goddess who seemed perfectly content to make smalltalk with Alya. She asked about Alya’s studies, her family, and her career goals, and listened with genuine interest to her answers, particularly those regarding her career.

“This catalogue should open a lot of doors for you in the industry,” Isii said.

“Thank the Creators for whatever clerical error got me here,” Alya said with a laugh.

Isii smiled. “Not an error at all. I requested you.”

It was very fortunate that Alya had run out of brandy, for she’d likely have choked on it again. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve worked with Vivienne dozens of times over the years, and I’ve accumulated a fair amount of clout with her. I insisted.”

“I didn’t realize you and Madame de Fer were friends,” Alya said.

Isii pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t say _that_ , exactly,” she said, and Alya followed her gaze to the opposite side of the room where Vivienne was emphatically vetoing a stylist’s attempt to put a certain pair of heels on a model clad in a turquoise silk basque with purple and gold embroidery. “Our relationship is strictly professional, but she respects my instincts for this business. From what I’ve seen of your work, you have the potential to make her a _lot_ of money, and that’s exactly what I told her. And besides,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “we Dalish girls need to look out for one another.”

Alya nodded mutely, feeling as though her head might explode.

She _still_ hadn’t quite wrapped her mind around it a half hour later when she was in the makeup chair, one stylist finishing up a dramatic cat’s eye while another groused about the Antivan climate as he worked a serum through her curls, painstakingly reshaping each one. She did not hazard a glance in the mirror when they pronounced her finished; makeup for shoots always looked horribly bizarre in person, especially on someone with vallaslin. They would digitally resaturate it later, of course, but it was still rather ugly in the meantime.

From there she was sent to wardrobe to be dressed in her first outfit for the shoot, a quarter-cup bra and thong in coral satin with an overlay of gold eyelash lace, a pair of gold heels, and a set of delicate, diamond-accented gold chains draped around her waist, secured in place by a diamond navel ring. The latter was by far the most glamorous thing she had ever worn, and she was in the midst of lamenting the need to ultimately give it back when she caught sight of a familiar blonde head nearby.

Oh _no_.

Alya slipped into a dressing gown and hurried over to seize her soon-to-be ex-best friend. “Are you _completely_ out of your mind?” she hissed, dragging Sera behind a rack of linens.

Sera grinned unrepentantly. “Damn near, that craft services table is _aces_. Oy!” she cried, jerking her arm away before Alya could deliver another savage pinch.

“You are going to get me fired! Why aren’t you at the hotel?”

“Hotel’s boring as shite. They don’t even have any good porn. Besides, I heard Saara Adaar was going to be here,” Sera said, peeking out from behind the rack.

Alya pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. You’re putting my career in jeopardy so you can try to shag a model?”

“How dare you, I’ll have you know that I have a long-term plan to marry her.”

“How did you even get _in_ here? This is a closed set!”

Sera shrugged. “I dunno. I wasn’t really thinking at the time, and— _Maker’s_ flaming balls,” she said, ogling a buxom Rivani wearing a black lace garter belt and a multi-strand gold necklace in lieu of a top.

Alya crossed her arms. “Really, Sera? I thought you were going to marry Saara Adaar.”

“Well, sure, but you can’t expect me to ignore a buffet of tits in the meantime.”

Suddenly conscious of her own bare breasts, Alya pulled her dressing gown closed. Sera scoffed.

“Oh, not _even_ , it’d be like fucking my sister.”

“Sera, _get out of here_.”

“Yeah. You’re right,” Sera said, scanning the room. “Saara Adaar’s not in here.”

“No, I mean go back to the—” Alya tried in vain to grab Sera before she bolted out into the corridor. She sighed. “Hotel.”

This might be a very, very long three days.

Sera’s presence notwithstanding, the first day’s schedule of shooting went smoothly: Sofia Mousset lounging in the courtyard garden in an ivory georgette chemise. Saara Adaar, her bejeweled nipples bare, posing in front of an enormous stone fireplace in a fine leather waist-cincher, a riding crop in her hands. Isii reclining on a fainting couch in a plum velvet corset edged with Orlesian leavers lace. Alya draped across a luxuriously appointed four-poster bed. Carissa in the main corridor in a bra and panty set of peacock blue guipure lace. Inari sitting on the edge of a bed, fastening a pair of black silk stockings to her crimson garter belt.

The final set of the day, just as night was falling, was of Mariana standing in front of a tall window, the combination of her ebony skin and a gown of luminous silver silk making her look like an entity composed solely of moonlight.

And thus, with Vivienne’s proclamation that the day had been a success, the models were dismissed and herded into the limousine waiting to shuttle them back to the hotel.

Sera was already stretched out on the bed closest to the window in her ratty nightshirt and watching something that sounded suspiciously like porn on her tablet when Alya returned to their room shortly before midnight.

“Don’t think you’re getting off easy,” Alya said, leveling a glare at her grinning friend as she headed into the bathroom to remove her makeup. “I’m too tired to be properly angry right now, but this isn’t over.”

* * *

**_Day Two_  
**

Alya let out a jaw-cracking yawn. Call that morning had been well before dawn, and despite the steaming cup of Antivan espresso in her hand—her third—she was still very much feeling her scant three hours of sleep. **  
**

Not to mention the lingering mortification of having nodded off on Isii’s shoulder in the car. The memory alone made her rather want to curl up under the floorboards and die, but Isii had taken it in stride, being kind enough not to even mention the spot of drool Alya had left behind on her shirt.

Isii was the reason they were here this early—or rather, her cover photo was. The lead photographer currently had her out on the balcony with the best view of Rialto Bay, the early morning sunlight sparkling off the azure waters below. Clad in gold body paint, dripping with jewelry, and carrying rather than wearing the gold filigree mask the stylists had provided her (“I am paying far too much for that particular face to cover it with a mask, darling.”), Isii looked like some sort of… sexy sand fairy.

Or something.

Alya took another sip of her espresso. It really was _far_ too early.

“That’s Isii, then?”

Alya nearly jumped out of her skin, whipping around to find Sera crouched behind her chair, a cream-filled pastry in each hand. “How did—? You were fast asleep when I left!”

“Don’t even worry about it,” Sera said, waving one of the pastries dismissively before shoving it into her mouth. “She’s got a nice arse for an elf,” she added, nodding toward Isii.

Alya cleared her throat.

Sera shrugged. “You have, too, but it’s harder to get excited about that.”

Alya rolled her eyes.

“Ooh! Who’s that?”

Alya followed Sera’s gaze to a curvy redhead in a gold lace bodysuit. “Lucrezia Amo.”

“Give me her phone number.”

“I don’t _have_ her phone number.”

“So? Go get it!”

“No!”

“Get me her number and I’ll leave.”

Alya thought about that for a moment. She narrowed her eyes. “You’re lying.”

“I _totally_ am,” Sera agreed, stuffing the other pastry into her mouth. “These are good. You should try these.”

“Sera—”

“Gotta go,” Sera said, vanishing into a rack of dressing gowns as a production assistant came to fetch Alya for her first session of the day.

They had begun so early that she would sit for several more by the time they stopped for the night, but this one would likely be the simplest. She was dressed in a long, lace-trimmed tangerine charmeuse gown that laced up the back, slit to the hip at each side. Her hair had been done in a slightly wild, tousled style to give her the air of one who’d just arisen from bed, for that was precisely the role she was meant to play.

She was photographed stretching luxuriously on the bed, sitting at the antique writing desk beside it, and gazing out the window at the rising sun. At the photographer’s bidding, she conjured a small flame in her hand, posing as if she were using it to light one of the oil-rubbed bronze sconces on the wall.

By the time they had finished that set and she had returned downstairs, gotten her hair re-styled, and changed into the delicate black lace bra and knickers she was to wear for her next session, it was still only mid-morning.

And well past time that she indulged herself in some breakfast.

True to Sera’s assessment, the craft services table— _tables_ , to be exact—was, indeed, aces. Vivienne had spared no expense. There was a towering display of fresh fruit, the table groaning under the weight of everything from common strawberries, apples and peaches to exotic mangoes, pomegranates, and dragonfruit. Beside this was a sprawling charcuterie display with cured meats, cheeses, and olives from every corner of Thedas. After that stood a table stocked with every pastry imaginable: croissants, sticky buns, cream puffs, glazed rolls filled with jams and sweetened cheese, and a tray of petits fours that were almost too pretty to eat. Slightly apart from the rest, a raw bar carved of ice boasted lobster tails, shrimp, a colorful array of caviar and sushi rolls, and oysters on the half shell with a variety of sauces.

Alya helped herself to a chocolate croissant, took a seat, and pulled out her laptop, intent on getting some work done while she awaited her next session.

She was deep into an explanation of her own personal theory as to why the Fade and its inhabitants shaped themselves to suit the dreamer’s expectations when a gust of jasmine perfume heralded Isii’s arrival. The body paint and diamonds had been done away with in favor of an ivory satin balconet bra and panty set adorned with swags of pearls at the bust and hips. Matching pearl bracelets encircled her slender wrists.

Isii smiled, sitting down next to Alya. “Homework?” she asked, selecting a strawberry from the plate of fruit in her hand and popping it into her mouth.

“Yes,” Alya said. “Well. _Sort_ of. My professor said he would consider forgiving me for missing his seminar this week if I wrote a paper about the Fade.”

Isii frowned. “Sounds like an ass.”

“Oh, no! He’s… well, he _can_ be, a bit,” Alya allowed. “But never to me. And I think he was mostly joking. Maybe. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. But he’s a wonderful teacher,” she added. “Everything he has to say is so _fascinating_.”

Isii hummed thoughtfully, a knowing smirk creeping onto her face. “Fair to assume that he’s cute?”

“ _So_ cute,” Alya said, feeling herself flush. Seizing the rare opportunity to talk about Solas without someone—namely, Sera—making loud gagging noises, she gushed on. “He’s got these dreamy blue eyes, and a _gorgeous_ smile. And his _voice_! I could listen to him talk all day. Not that that’s why I take his classes, of course,” she said quickly.

“ _Perish_ the thought.”

Alya laughed at herself. Gods, she was a mess. “Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear about this. I just don’t get much of an outlet for it. Him being my teacher, and all, it’s… weird.”

“Oh, you’re hardly the first person to have a crush on a teacher,” Isii said with a wave of her hand. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

More pleased than she cared to admit to have her infatuation validated by someone she held in such high esteem, Alya went on, extolling the virtues of Solas’s wit, his knowledge, and his cheekbones until she and Isii were called for their next shoot.

They were to pose together in this session, and they were led to an upstairs bedroom that had been decorated for that purpose. The huge windows overlooking the water were hung with sheer ivory curtains that wafted gently in the warm bay breeze. At the center of the room stood a massive bed dressed in blue and gold silks and strewn with ornately embroidered pillows, its dark wooden posts intricately carved in the classical Antivan style. Directly across from the foot of the bed was a grand marble fireplace in which a fire crackled merrily despite the pleasant weather, and before the fireplace lay a sumptuous fur rug that Alya longed to run her toes through.

The shoot began with them sitting on the bed, holding crystal flutes of sparkling wine (from which they were not actually supposed to drink, it turned out) as they acted the part of gossiping friends. This came naturally enough, and the photographer expressed no small amount of delight as she snapped shot after shot of the two of them laughing together as Isii regaled Alya with tales of the mischief she’d gotten up to in her time as an undergraduate at the University of Orlais.

From the bed they moved to a mirrored vanity where Alya sat upon the cushioned stool admiring herself as Isii draped a long pearl necklace around her neck, and from the vanity to the rug in front of the fireplace.

The thick, cream-colored fur was exactly as soft as Alya had imagined, luxurious against her bare legs as she and Isii knelt before the fire. Here, the photographer wished them posed more intimately: the two of them lying together on the rug, Isii curled against Alya’s back; Alya lying on her back with Isii straddling her legs, her long, elegant hands braced lightly on Alya’s lower abdomen; the two of them kneeling in an embrace, albeit loosely enough to keep their lingerie prominently displayed.

“ _Magnifique_!” the photographer gushed, peering out from behind the camera. “Now, perhaps a kiss?”

Alya blinked. “What?”

“A kiss, _s'il vous plaît_ ,” the photographer reiterated.

Yes. That was what Alya thought she had said. Blood pounded in her ears, a hot flush racing to her cheeks.

Absurd, really. By the standards of Orlesian advertising, two models kissing was really quite tame. But Creators, Alya had never kissed a woman before, and _this_ was one of the most famous women in the world!

Isii smiled. “If you’re not comfortable—”

“No, I’m fine,” Alya said. She was a _professional_ , damn it. She could do this. “I’ve just only ever kissed boys.”

“I can assure you that the principle is the same,” Isii said with a laugh. She adjusted their position slightly, angling them so that their bodies would not obscure the garments the photo was meant to advertise as she curled one hand around the small of Alya’s back and tipped her chin up with the other, bringing their lips mere millimeters apart. She held that pose long enough for the photographer to snap a few pictures before ducking her head to meet Alya’s lips.

It _wasn’t_ much different than kissing a boy, Alya discovered. Indeed, were it not for the sticky gloss coating Isii’s lips, it would have felt exactly the same.

Well. _Almost_. The boys Alya had kissed always seemed to be in a hurry, their lips rough and demanding against hers. Isii was not in a hurry, her lips soft as she changed her angle slightly, slanting their mouths together. Whether this was for the camera’s sake or just how women kissed, Alya couldn’t say.

“Oh, _si doux_! _Si tendre_!” the photographer sighed, gushing that this would surely make the centerfold as she pronounced them finished and dismissed Alya and Isii back to wardrobe.

“There, that wasn’t so awkward, was it?” Isii said with a grin as they headed down the vast marble staircase to the ground floor of the villa.

Alya smiled back. “No,” she said. Of all the superfluously famous women she could have been required to kiss, she was certainly glad Isii had been the one she’d gotten.

A loud burst of laughter echoed through the main corridor, drawing them to a sitting room dressed in deep shades of emerald, sapphire, and burgundy where Saara Adaar, clad in a flame red open cup bra and thong with bejeweled golden sleeves over her horns, had Carissa pinned to a plush velvet divan, a black lace robe laying open around her.

“Surrender to the Qun!” Saara snarled theatrically, prompting another round of laughter from the photography crew around them.

“Never!” Carissa giggled, feigning a struggle. “My magic will destroy you!”

Alya caught movement out of the corner of her eye and—yes, there was Sera, hiding behind a mother of pearl-inlaid mahogany armoire just out of the camera’s field of view.

Sera must have sensed Alya’s disapproving glare upon her, for she caught her eye, grinning.

“Get _out_ ,” Alya mouthed.

Sera made an exaggerated sad face, pantomiming being unable to hear.

Alya pantomimed ringing a person’s neck.

“Friend of yours?” Isii asked under her breath. Catching Alya’s look of absolute horror, she chuckled. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

Alya heaved a sigh of relief.

And resolved to murder Sera.

Apart from a handful of stylists and production assistants, the crew for this shoot was comprised almost solely of women, so Alya was taken by surprise when they returned to wardrobe to find quite a few men milling about.

“Models,” Isii explained, noting Alya’s confusion.

“Oh. I didn’t know Solange’s had a men’s line,” Alya said, feeling terribly ignorant of her own employer.

Isii shook her head. “It doesn’t. They bring the male models in on these big shoots for boudoir poses. Vivienne learned a while back that the steamier the picture, the better the lingerie in it sells over the holidays. Whatever this season’s big ticket items are, they’ll be rolling them out today.”

Isii was not mistaken. Solange’s specialized in luxury lingerie, but the pieces in wardrobe this afternoon had to be seen to be believed: bras and panties encrusted with gemstones; nighties of the finest Orlesian silks embroidered with genuine, 24-karat gold thread; corsets and girdles of buttery soft Antivan leather; elaborate playsuits of gold, silver, and bronze wrought by the most sought-after metalworkers in Tevinter and inlaid with semi-precious stones.

And the jewelry! Alya could barely breathe at the sight of it. Heavy necklaces of gold and pearls, diamond earrings and bracelets, even garters of precious metals littered the accessory tables—a small fortune, glittering gaily in the bright afternoon sun.

Alya was wrapped in a quarter cup bra and panty of decadently soft burgundy lace, embroidered throughout with golden thread. A new belly chain adorned her waist, even more elaborate than the first, diamonds and pearls dripping from the delicate gold chain. Isii was still in the process of being cinched into a black silk corset embroidered with green and gold dragons when one of the photographers called Alya away for her next shoot, a gorgeous blond model in tow.

Creators, she was going to be posing with _him_? Alya swallowed hard, looking to Isii for counsel.

Isii gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ll do fine. Pretend he’s your cute teacher,” she added with a wink.

Alya and the male model were led to another upstairs bedroom for their session, this one decorated in velvet and damask in rich red and gold hues. She knew this model, Alya realized. Ferelden’s fashion industry was a minuscule thing, but this was one of its more recognizable faces, famed for his uncanny resemblance to the excessively attractive Fereldan royal family. She recalled one ad from several years earlier—she’d forgotten what for—that had placed him, shirtless, on a throne, a crown atop his close-cropped golden hair and a woman kneeling at each side, gazing worshipfully up at his chiseled face.

Creators, what was his name?

“Orion.”

Yes! That was it. “Alya,” she replied, accepting his proffered hand.

Orion offered her a smile that her period romances would have described as rakish, his green eyes twinkling as, instead of shaking it, he brought her hand to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.

Alya felt as though her cheeks might catch fire.

“An extraordinary pleasure to meet you,” Orion said, the warm baritone of his voice enveloping her like so much velvet.

Behind them, the photographer cleared her throat delicately. “Orion. You _have_ been warned.”

Orion let out a dramatic sigh, releasing Alya’s hand. “Yes, yes. Madame de Fer made herself abundantly clear. Spoilsport.”

Appeased, the photographer posed them by the open window, bathing them in sunlight. Orion was positioned behind Alya. The white button-down shirt he’d been styled in hung open to display sculpted abs, and a pair of crisp charcoal grey suit trousers sat low on his hips.

Alya bit her lip. It was none of her business, but… “What exactly were you warned about?”

Orion chuckled, curling one hand around her hip at the photographer’s bidding. “I’m under strict orders not to fraternize. ‘You are a _prop_ , my dear,'” he said, pitching his voice into a mimicry of Vivienne’s. “'Look pretty and stay out of trouble.’ Not entirely unreasonable of her,” he added. “The last time I attended one of these shoots, I _may_ have caused some tension between several of the ladies.”

“There was a _brawl_ ,” the photographer corrected.

“Well, sure, that’s one version of events.”

“That is the _only_ version,” the photographer said. “Set pieces were broken, two people required stitches, and we are forever barred from shooting in Hossberg.”

“In my defense, Hossberg is a shithole,” Orion said.

The photographer looked unconvinced, and began snapping photos.

The session began chastely enough, but soon grew racier, Orion’s hands moving more suggestively over Alya’s body. Respectful though he was about it, asking permission before each new pose, this was still far and away the most intimate position Alya had ever been in with a man, and it was beginning to get to her. She shivered as one of his hands skated up to cup her breast, the thumb of the other hooking into the waistband of her knickers to pull them low on one hip.

_Pretend he’s your cute teacher._

Alya swallowed hard. Oh, Gods. Now she was thinking about Solas.

What would he think if he saw her like this? He very well could. Come the holidays, this catalogue would be everywhere. There would be nothing stopping him from looking inside. What would he think, seeing her so bare? Would it scandalize him, seeing her with Orion’s large, strong hands caressing her breasts, her belly, her hips?

Or might it excite him?

Behind her, she heard Orion chuckle. “Employing a bit of method acting, are we?” he asked, his voice a low purr in her ear.

Alya frowned. What was that scoundrel on about? Her gaze dropped to the hand cupping her breast.

Oh.

Alya flushed. “It’s cold in here,” she said.

“Oh, you poor thing, I hadn’t realized,” Orion said, his voice rich with amusement as he slid his hand from her hip to her belly, splaying his fingers just below her navel. Alya’s breath hitched as he lowered his head, his lips hovering a hair’s breadth from her earlobe. “Shall I hold you closer?”

“ _Orion_ ,” the photographer said sharply.

Orion sighed. “You are, madam, an incredible killjoy.”

“I shall take it as a compliment,” she replied. “Get on the bed.”

“Darling, I thought you would never ask.”

The photographer rolled her eyes. “Maker’s breath, man.”

Orion chuckled to himself as he stretched out atop the red and gold bedspread, shucking his shirt as an afterthought as he nestled his gilded head amid a sea of tufted pillows. He beckoned and Alya followed, her cheeks heating anew as he led her to straddle his hips.

“ _Attendez_!” cried a production assistant, rushing forward with two ornate golden masks in her hand. Alya and Orion held perfectly still while she affixed them. She carefully fluffed Alya’s curls over the silken ties and, once she was satisfied, gave them her leave to continue.

The masks, it turned out, were equal parts blessing and curse. While having her face half hidden afforded Alya a rather freeing sense of anonymity, removing some of the self-consciousness she had felt about posing so suggestively with a man, being unable to see Orion’s face made it all too easy to picture someone else in his stead.

To imagine that the eyes peering up at her from beneath that mask were not green, but stormy blue. To imagine leaner muscles jumping beneath her fingers as she traced them over his stomach. To imagine elegant, long-fingered hands sliding up her legs, encircling her waist, framing her breasts. To imagine the warmth of a different set of hips beneath her; the touch of a different finger trailing down to her navel, making her gasp and squirm as it toyed with the diamond ring there.

Orion laughed, and the spell was broken. “You were looking terribly serious for a moment,” he said, giving the jewel a playful tug.

“I take my job seriously,” Alya said, managing to keep her voice miraculously even despite the grim certainty that she’d just ruined a pair of knickers worth more than her family’s aravel.

“An admirable quality in a woman,” Orion said. He slid his fingers down to the waistband of her knickers and dragged it low, stopping just shy of revealing her lower lips to the camera. “Anything worth doing is worth doing right.” He righted her knickers and sat up beneath her, guiding her up onto her knees above his muscular thighs, one of his big hands cupping her ass as the other curled around the back of her head as though he were about to pull her into a passionate kiss. “To that end,” he murmured as the camera’s shutter clicked merrily away, “shall we give them a bit more to work with?”

The words smacked of a challenge, though Alya could not understand why. She did not, however, intend to back down from it. “Of course.”

Orion wasted no time. He repositioned Alya onto her back, pausing to let the production assistant arrange her curls appealingly over the pillows before lowering himself to join her. Slowly, so that the camera could capture each movement, he slid his hand down her body. “Now, now, no need to be so reserved,” he said as she gnawed on her lip, trying to contain a sigh as he fondled a breast, “the viewer _is_ supposed to think that you’re enjoying yourself.”

He gave her nipple a gentle pinch and Alya gasped, arching off the bed as a hot thrill of pleasure shot to her core.

“There we are,” he said, offering her a cheeky wink as the photographer voiced her praise. “Far more natural,” Orion explained. His hand continued on its journey, his fingers dancing just shy of her navel–she could have sworn he was smirking–as they made their way down to the waist of her knickers again, dipping just beneath it as though he intended to pleasure her.

Creators help her, but she wasn’t entirely certain she would have protested if he did.

After a few camera flashes the fingers withdrew, and he righted her clothing once more before climbing back up her body. The same path his hand had taken he now followed with his lips, and Alya shivered at the warm press of his mouth, the scratch of stubble upon skin that had never before received such attention.

His kisses reached her navel, and a whimper escaped her as he worried the ring with his tongue before licking a slow line back up her ribs.

“Gorgeous,” the photographer said with a happy sigh. “Alya, your work is so _genuine_.”

Orion frowned. “ _Her_ work? What am I, chopped liver?”

“You’re fine, too,” the photographer said dismissively. Then, more loudly she said, “Excellent work, everyone. That’s a wrap for this session.”

Orion heaved a long-suffering sigh, but shot Alya another saucy wink before going to retrieve his shirt.

No. Those knickers hadn’t stood a chance.

* * *

**_Day Three_ **

  
“Psst!”

Alya looked up from the paragraph she was currently agonizing over to find Isii standing just outside the door of the green room, beckoning her to follow. Curious, she closed her laptop and acquiesced. The final day of shooting had wrapped up well ahead of schedule (due in large part, Alya had heard it quietly suggested, to Madame de Fer having urgent business elsewhere in the city), and it would be a few hours yet until the limousine arrived to take the models back to the hotel.

The briefest shoot by far, today’s had also been the most enjoyable. In keeping with the spirit of the holiday, the Solange’s Satinalia catalogue always had one costumed shoot, and Alya had been absolutely delighted by this year’s theme. The villa seemed to have been _made_ to serve as an ancient harem, adorned throughout with colorful glass lanterns, swags of rich fabrics, a rainbow of heavily embroidered pillows, and magnificent crystal hookah pipes. Getting paid to prance around in pretty knickers was quite a lot of fun on its own, but was considerably more so when one got to dress up like a belly dancer and pretend to be a favored courtesan while doing it.

The highlight of this shoot, unsurprisingly, had been Isii. With a shimmering veil of green and gold chiffon over her hair and strategically placed golden jewelry to preserve her modesty, she had played the role of a harem girl trying to seduce Orion’s palace guard. The performance had truly been a wonder to behold, Isii’s character so coy and playful with her flirtation while Orion’s projected an air of barely-maintained stoicism, his eyes nevertheless burning with annoyance and lust in equal measures. Even now, the sheer nuance and intimacy of it nearly made Alya swoon with envy for their mastery of the craft.

It was with every intention of getting her advice on how to emulate such a performance that Alya followed Isii now along the main corridor of the villa, through a small wooden door, and then down a narrow, winding staircase into the bowels of the building.

The temperature dipped dramatically, and Alya shivered. “Where are we going?”

Isii held a finger to her lips.

The staircase ended at another door that looked to have been part of the villa’s original construction some four ages ago, beyond which Alya could faintly make out the sound of voices. With a grin, Isii pushed it open.

A hearty cheer greeted them as they stepped into what turned out to be a vast wine cellar in which a number of the other models were gathered, clustered around a large, heavy wooden table laid out with at least a half dozen bottles of wine and several silver platters that had previously occupied the craft services table.

Alya frowned. “Are we allowed to be down here?”

“We won’t tell if you won’t,” Carissa shrugged, sucking down an oyster layered with salami, cheese, and a heaping spoonful of caviar.

Inari made a face. “ _Vashedan_ , Caro. How do you stay so skinny?”

“Blood magic,” Carissa said with a wink, downing another.

“We’ve got a nice seventeen-year-old Green Dales cab with your name on it, Isii,” Saara said, handing her a generous portion of the ruby red elixir, which Isii accepted with a sound of approval. “What about you, fresh meat? Pick your poison.”

Oh. She meant her. Alya flushed. “I like sweet white.”

Saara nodded, grabbing a nearby bottle and pouring its buttery yellow contents into a glass. “Hunterhorn riesling coming at you.”

Sofia pouted. “Hey, that’s _my_ drink.”

Saara laughed. “There are six more bottles of it down here. I think you’ll survive,” she said, pressing the glass into Alya’s hand.

Mariana tutted disapprovingly. “Betting against an Antivan when wine is at stake?”

“Famous last words,” Sofia agreed, clinking her glass softly against Mariana’s as she popped a profiterole into her mouth.

Feeling rather like an outsider at a club gathering to which she was nevertheless pleased to have been invited, Alya raised the glass to her lips. Her first sip brought the crisp, bright flavor of peaches and green apples to her tongue, and she gasped aloud, staring into the glass as though the liquid within was nothing short of magical.

Sofia giggled. “Right?”

Alya nodded, a huge smile coming onto her face as she took another sip of the delicious concoction. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” she said, laughing at herself. **  
**

“So far, anyway?” Isii said, giving her a knowing wink. Alya choked on her wine.

“ _What’s_ going on?” Inari asked, looking curiously between the two of them.

Her cheeks blazing, Alya took another fortifying sip before launching into the tale of the professor who had inadvertently stolen her heart.

“Ooh, _hot_ ,” Carissa said when Alya had finished. “I had the biggest thing for my Magical Theory professor back in school. She was married, though,” she added a tad wistfully.

“Is he single?” Mariana asked, somehow managing to be dainty about cracking open the cluster of snow crab legs on her plate.

Alya frowned, a niggling thread of fear snaking into her heart. Creators, how had that never occurred to her before? “I think so,” she said slowly. “He’s never mentioned a wife or girlfriend, and he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.”

“Hit that,” Saara said decisively, having assigned herself the task of refilling all of the glasses that were more than half empty.

“Hit it hard,” Carissa agreed, blowing a kiss at Saara as her glass was topped off.

“Speaking of,” Saara said, “who’s your little blonde friend?”

“Oh, _fuck_ me,” Alya muttered as Isii threw her head back and laughed.

As it happened, they had all noticed Sera sneaking about, but not a one of them had breathed a word to the production crew.

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Alya asked, flabbergasted.

Sofia shrugged. “We firmly believed that it was funny.”

“We also didn’t want to get you in trouble,” Inari added. “But mostly it was the ‘funny’ thing.”

“What’s her deal?” Saara asked. “Is she available?”

Through a haze of stunned disbelief that Sera’s idiot plan had actually yielded its intended result, Alya responded that yes, Sera was indeed available, and provided Saara with her phone number. At the very least, Alya reasoned, maybe this would appease Sera enough to keep her away from future sets.

It was, she knew, a very large ‘maybe.’

Saara had just slipped her phone back into her purse when the mechanical chime of Isii’s sounded for what must have been the eighth time that hour. Isii rolled her eyes, a tiny grin tugging at her lips as she pulled it out and glanced at the screen. She let out a snort.

Carissa laughed.“Okay, spill: who keeps blowing up your phone?”

Isii’s grin widened as she showed Carissa the phone.

Carissa’s brow furrowed. “Are those _starfish_? What the fuck?”

Marianna chuckled. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

Isii nodded. “I’m _pretty_ sure he’s wasted.”

Alya frowned. “Him?”

Isii held out the phone, the screen of which currently displayed a poorly-shot photo of Orion standing beside a tall, tan elven man, both of them looking quite drunk indeed and wearing starfish stuck to their chests like a burlesque dancer’s pasties.

Inari rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you had sex with that guy.”

Alya’s eyes widened. “You _did_?”

“How was it?” Sofia asked.

A sly sort of smile crept onto Isii’s face. “He was _very_ eager to please.”

“Ten out of ten, would bang again?”

“Would absolutely bang again,” Isii confirmed, laughing at Saara’s wolfish grin.

Alya frowned. “But I thought–I mean, I heard that we aren’t allowed to fraternize,” she said, carefully skirting the fact that it was Orion who had told her so.

Isii shrugged. “What Madame de Fer doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“Cheers to _that_ ,” Saara said, a sentiment echoed by the others as they clinked their glasses together in an enthusiastic toast.

Amid an endless chorus of laughter, raucous drinking songs, and raunchy sex stories, Alya completely lost track of how much time had passed before a mass text announcing the limousine’s arrival interrupted their revelry, and it was with a touch of bittersweetness–and, in Saara, Carissa, and Sofia’s cases, as much wine as they could hide in their bags–that the group headed for the car.

“All kidding aside,” Isii said so that only Alya could hear, “once you’re not in his class anymore, I think you owe it to yourself to see if the feeling is mutual with that professor of yours. Who knows? Maybe it was meant to be,” she added with a wink.

* * *

 

Sera frowned. “So, Isii’s like your fairy godmother. But for cocks.”

“ _Why_ do I tell you things?”

“‘Cause you’re mental,” Sera said, leaning back with a satisfied smirk as their plane lifted off the tarmac of the Antiva City International Airport.


End file.
